


The Illustrious Military Career of Lerant of Eldorne (The Early Years)

by PeroxidePirate



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-29
Updated: 2010-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeroxidePirate/pseuds/PeroxidePirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a special person to get kicked out of the armed forces -- twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Illustrious Military Career of Lerant of Eldorne (The Early Years)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [journeycat](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=journeycat).



The lad's bearing marked him immediately as a noble. So, too, did the precise arrangement of his brunnet hair.

“Lerant of Eldorne,” he said, with a bow. “I think you'll find that my application is all in order.”

Lieutenant Jonas of Derkholm gave him a tolerant smile, with all the condesention of his nineteen years. He gave the scroll a cursory glance, then nodded. “Welcome to the Guard. I'll show you to the dormitory.”

“I thought the Palace Guard was supposed to be an easy job,” Sherwin whined.

“Shut up!” said Sergeant Wrisley. “I'm trying to think.” The squad ran down the palace hallway, trailed by nightmare creatures with wings, claws, and horse-like legs.

Lerant looked over this shoulder when he heard the creatures' claws scrambling fruitlessly on the stone floor. “At least they can't fly in here.”

Adam whistled. “Never thought I'd see flying horses.” He loosed his bow, sending an arrow into the midst of their pursuers. It was impossible to tell if it hit: their screeching was already at a fevered, ear-splitting pitch.

“Never thought the flying horses would have fangs,” Lerant said.

“What?” The others, including the sergeant, were staring at him.

Lerant shrugged. “It's a story my aunt told, that's all. Keep running!” He fitted an arrow to his bow, shot it half-blindly, and kept moving. Fortunately, the things were unarmed.

“Down here.” Wrisley yanked open the door to a narrow stairway, shoving the others ahead of him. “Maybe they'll get stuck.”

“If they're after us in the first place,” Lerant muttered. Sure enough, the creatures thundered past – must be half a dozen of them; twenty-four clawed feet – and continued down the hall, still screeching.

He stuck his head out of the stairway, bow at the ready. “Hey, horsebrain! Just stay away from the princess who's down here with us!”

As one, the creatures turned, terrible wings flaring to fill the hallway. A beaked mouth opened wide, and Lerant shot again. This time he saw his arrow fly, straight into the mouth of the creature. Its cry turned even more anguished; it collapsed, clawing at its neck. Behind him, the rest of the squad readied their bows and fired off a series of shots. Just one of the creatures managed to dodge the rain of arrows to come in close, swiping a foot across Lerant's chest. Its sharp claws caught in the heavy woven fabric of his uniform, and its mouth opened wider.

“Get off me, you foul-smelling thing!” Lerant yelled. Then Adam's dagger plunged into the creature's chest, and it fell, dragging Lerant down with it. As blood spilled over them both, Lerant's stomach turned over. “Oh, no, no, no, that's not going to help,” he said. He bit his lip, forcing his mouth closed, and fought to untangle the thing's claws. Then another hand came into view, also holding a dagger. It was Wrisley, who quickly hacked through the fabric of Lerant's uniform. Lerant stood up, gratefully, and stripped off the remains of his blood-soaked tunic. He looked around, and found the hallway blessedly still.

Sherwin turned his back, vomiting into the corner of the hall. When he turned back, Lerant gave him a grin. “Definitely an easy job.”

Adam laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder.

Lerant's dress uniform was scratchy against his skin. He stood between Adam and Sherwin while they waited for their squad to be called. At the front of the room, the prime minister read off the names. Each man or boy came forward, bowed to the king, and received a medal. Even the pages and squires who'd helped to fight off the hurrok attack were being honored.

“Sergeant Wrisley of Buford,” the prime minister intoned, and Lerant watched his commanding officer receive his recognition. “Adam Faber.”

He was next.

“Lerant of...” The prime minister stopped, peering closely at his scroll. The king glanced his way, and something wordless passed between them. “Young Lerant,” Sir Gareth finished, and Lerant's stomach dropped into his boots. Nevertheless, he strode solemnly to the front of the room, bowed politely, and stood still while King Jonathan pinned the metal to his chest. The king's empty smile never changed, but Lerant could feel the prime minister's cold stare on him the entire time.

“Sherwin Theone,” Sir Gareth continued, and Sherwin grinned as though he'd battled the entire herd himself.

Sir Raoul let himself into the prime minister's office. “Gary, what happened in the middle, there? Who's this 'Young Lerant?'”

“Close the door,” ordered King Jonathan. “He's Lerant of Eldorne. Ruperth has some serious explaining to do.”

“It's not the lad's fault,” Raoul said.

“Of course it's not,” Jonathan snapped. “But we can't stand up there and announce that an Eldorne might well have saved my children's lives, either. He's the one who thought to distract them; did you know that? If another half-dozen hurroks had made it to the nursery, I doubt Wyldon and his pages could have held them off.”

“So what happens?”

“He'll have to go.” Sir Gareth spoke for the first time. “It's unfortunate, but... you know what people will say. There are still some who support Delia.”

“The message has already gone to Ruperth,” Jonathan added. “Don't argue, Raoul. Like as not, he'll be happy to go home to Eldorne, now he's seen bloodshed.”

“He looks like a born soldier, to me. It's a shame to waste all that potential.” Raoul glared at his oldest friends. “I hate politics.”

“Guardsman Lerant.”

The young man saluted and remained standing; he had never been invited to sit down in Captain Ruperth's office.

“It's come to my attention that there is a certain... history... between your family and the crown.”

“My aunt's treason,” Lerant said bluntly. “My lord, it has no more bearing on my loyalties than Duke Roger's behavior has on the king himself. I was an infant when it occurred.”

“I realize that.” The captain ran a hand through his hair, looking past Lerant without meeting his eyes. “It doesn't change the fact that it's an embarrassment to the crown, to be in the position of having to publicly honor an Eldorne.”

“My lord, I've been an Eldorne for near sixteen years. I've been in the Palace Guard for six months. I never pretended-”

“No,” Captain Ruperth agreed. “Lieutenant Jonas is young, and was unaware of the... history... in question. I, myself, neglected to review the applications that were accepted by Jonas. I assure you, we both made grave mistakes.”

“But I'm the one who will be booted from the Guard as a result. Sir.”

The captain looked at him then, expression hard. “You earned your medal fairly, Guardsman, so you'll be allowed to keep it. But yes, you are being relieved of active duty, effective immediately. You have one week to leave the dormitory and the palace.”

Lerant blinked overly-bright eyes. “Yes, my lord,” he said. He bowed, then turned to go.

“Lerant?” the captain said, as he opened the door. “I hear you, in particular, did well. We'll all be sorry to lose you.”

“You're serious about this?” Lerant's elder brother, Reyde, gripped his arm.

“Yes. I can't just sit home-”

“They made you promise to steer clear of the royal family-”

“Which is exactly why joining the army, way down in Hill Country, is a great idea.” He grinned at his brother. “You know me, Reyde. I've been kicking around Eldorne for a year, now. I'll just get in some kind of trouble or another, if I don't do something soon.”

“Godspeed, then,” Reyde said, dubiously.

Lerant grinned, and went back to packing.

“Lee Elden, sir.” Lerant snapped a salute. “I worked with a local militia, back home, and trained with a retired Palace Guardsman. I know a little formation work, and some swordsmanship, sir.”

“I see.” The colonel folded chubby, red hands on his desk. “And what makes you think you should have a place in the army instead of your local militia?”

Lerant had this story prepared. “The militia's a lot of sitting and waiting, sir. That's fine for the other boys, but I'm no hand at farming. I know Tortall needs soldiers – not just now-and-again, when trouble happens to find its way to us, but all the time. I'd like to help, sir.”

The colonel studied him for a minute, then nodded. “All right, Elden,” he said. “Consider yourself enlisted. Can you sign your name?”

The area was crawling with bandits. Even with three companies of soldiers, they couldn't cover all the ground. Lerant's squad fought in a pair of all-out battles that winter, and more skirmishes than he could keep straight. It rained. The battles for high ground took on extra urgency: any time they lost a hill, they were forced to pitch their tents in the mud. If Lerant harbored any romanticism about his career choice, that winter beat it out of him. Still, he appreciated the knowledge that he was making his own way in the world, unburdened by his family. He sent no letters home, and received none, which suited him fine.

The bandits fought with swords, for the most part: weapons cheaply made or in poor repair; swords chipped or bent or with dull spots that caught in whatever they hacked at. The soldiers were armed with pikes and bows, armored with leather jerkins and small shields. They fought in formation, a block of men moving as a single unit. They carried short, sturdy swords for use when the enemy broke through their outer defenses. At these times, Lerant would wish desperately for a real sword: something with reach and balance; something suited for fencing instead of mere hacking.

Even so, he was one of the best with the short sword. If they caught one bandit alone, the others would step back, leaving Lerant to battle him, and take bets on the number of passes it would take for Lerant to draw blood or knock the blade from the other man's hand.

“Where did you learn all that?” his friend Nels asked, after one such skirmish.

Lerant grinned. “My teacher used to be a Palace Gaurdsman,” he said. It was more true than not.

Nels shook his head, thin lips stretching into a wistful smile. “You'll have to teach me, sometime.”

“Sure – if the rain ever stops. When you might slip in the mud and impale me? Forget it.”

Nels and the others laughed, and they continued their patrol.

Lieutenant Brion watched them, scowling, from the back of the squad.

Lerant and the rest of the three companies stood at attention while Colonel Rickwood addressed them. “Soldiers, things are about to change: Lord Wyldon of Cavell has chosen our district as the location for the royal pages' training camp this summer. That means we have two months to ensure the place is entirely free from bandits.”

Some of the veterans laughed – hard men; men who'd been in the company for years, and seen the deaths of more comrades than Lerant had even served with. The colonel glared at them until they settled. “It's no laughing matter, soldiers. I have my orders. Here are yours: when you come upon any bandits, ruffians, or troublemakers of any kind, let no one escape.” He studied the assembled men, attitude growing ever more grave. “Capture them and bring them in for trial if you can, of course. But anyone you can't capture, you shoot.”

“Shoot to kill, sir?” asked one of the captains.

“If necessary,” Rickwood said. “My orders were clear: no one gets away.”

Shortly after that, the weather broke at long last. Under the blue sky, patrols took on a new urgency, as squads competed for the most captures – and kills. Lieutenant Brion's scowl became a permanent fixture: he didn't like working that hard. Lerant's squad was never among the top three listed on the slate in the mess hall each night.

“I don't understand it,” he said to Nels, as they were washing up one night. “It's like he doesn't even care.”

Nels shrugged. “To some of us, it's just a job. Lee, we're not all in it for the glory.”

Lerant thought about that, later, as he tossed and turned in his bunk. Was he here for glory? It would be under a false name, and false pretenses. It still wouldn't clear the name of Eldorne. That didn't stop him from wanting to do something good; something great. Something to make up for all the bad his Aunt Delia had done.

The squad had been on the march for days, in an ever-widening spiral away from base. The colonel estimated that the district was over 90% clear – meaning there was less and less to do. They still had to keep going until they captured the remaining 10% of the theives and bandits that were hiding practically under their noses.

It was almost dusk when their advance scout, a fellow named Tod, came back at a run. He gave the sign for quiet, and then hand-signed to let them know he'd seen a group of outlaws up ahead: twelve men, mounted, well armed.

Lerant watched avidly. Now they'd get to prove themselves.

Go slow, Lieutenant Brion signed. Stay covered; shoot at soon as we're in range; shoot the leaders first; try to spare the horses.

The orders made sense: on foot, against a mounted enemy, their best weapon was surprise. They fanned out so they could creep forward, cautious and silent, bows ready.

The first volley of arrows hit before the bandits knew they were there, wounding or killing more than half of the men. After that, it was like any skirmish: screams of men and horses, steel flashing, arrows flying.

Lerant found himself with sword in hand, battling an opponent armed with a real blade and the ability to use it. He couldn't get a good strike in; all he could do was block and block again. The outlaw forced him back, and back again. He'd falter any moment. Another step to the left, and the sun would be in his eyes. Then what? He hacked again, searching for an opening, trying to force the other man to change direction. He lost track of what else was happening; what the rest of the squad, and the rest of the bandits, were up to. His opponent had the reach on him, due to his cursed short sword. Suddenly he became aware of a sound behind him: laughter.

“Get him, Lee!” called Lieutenant Brion, and Lerant realized the laughter was his. Lerant was fighting for his life, and his commanding officer stood behind him and laughed.

Anger lent him speed, and he whipped his blade in a complex pattern, so fast his enemy couldn't follow. There – he found an opening, right at the man's throat. He plunged his sword forward. The man fell, blood spurting in every direction. He still didn't let go of his own weapon, and even as he breathed his last, his blade sliced into Lerant's left arm. Lerant felt the tendons severed, as his arm was gashed to the bone. He cried out, dropping his sword to reach for the roll of bandage all the soldiers carried in their belt pouches.

“Met your match that time, son.” Brion was still chortling, and some of his cronies – lazy, ill-tempered swine, the lot of them – were laughing too.

“Lee-” Nels came forward with his own roll of bandage, but Lerant waved him off. He'd see to his injury in a moment.

“You pox-rotted fool!” Lerant advanced on the lieutenant, grabbing the neck of his shirt with his good hand. “He almost killed me, and you stand there and laugh? What happened to watching each other's backs?”

Brion's hand closed on Lerant's wrist, thumb digging in between the bones. “I'm your commanding officer, boy. Not your nursemaid.” His eyes were full of hate. “You're a gods-cursed show-off, and you never yet had the sense to leave well enough alone. You get a sword in your hand, you lose all sense of reason. You're not a sarden noble, Elden. Stop acting like one. You want someone else to watch your back, first you better learn to watch it yourself.”

“Sit down,” said Colonel Rickwood. His office wasn't as nicely furnished as Captain Ruperth's, but the arrangement of furniture was exactly the same. “Lieutenant Brion could have had you flogged for threatening an officer, you know.”

Lerant looked at his feet. “Yes, sir.”

“Generally, soldiers remember that fact. Even in battle.”

“Excuse me, Colonel?” A bear of a man stood in the doorway. He was dressed like a knight, but he snapped off a perfect salute.

“My lord.” Colonel Rickwood returned the gesture. “What can I do for you?”

“Thought I'd do some recruiting, since I'm in the area.” His black eyes twinkled, and Lerant realized he'd seen him somewhere before. “If you have any soldiers who might do better in the irregular forces, could you send them my way?”

“Of course, my lord. I'll be finished here in a moment, if you'd like to discuss it?”

The knight grinned. “Certainly.” He saluted again, and he when he looked at Lerant, he gave a very small wink. Then he went out, closing the door behind him.

Rickwood glared at the closed door in silence for a moment before turning the glare on Lerant. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”

“No, sir.”

The colonel drummed his fingers together. “You told me,” he said at last, “that you knew a little swordsmanship, taught to you by a trained, noble mililia leader.”

“Yes, sir.”

“From what I've seen in the past few months, soldier – both your swordsmanship and your general attitude – I can't help suspecting that your association with your noble patron was a little more intimate than you let on.”

Lerant sat up straighter. “Sir, I-”

“Soldier. That's exactly the kind of thing I'm talking about: you talk back to your superiors, you interrupt, and you show off. This is the army.” Colonel Rickwood fixed him with a hard stare. “Elden, you're limited in your duty until that tendon heals, anyway. Since you can write, I'm assigning you work as a clerk. See if you can fit in there any better than you do in the ranks.”

Lerant gulped – being a clerk was the last thing he wanted. “Yes, sir,” he made himself say.

“You're dismissed, soldier. If you see Lord Raoul out there, tell him I can see him now.”

“My lord?” Lerant bowed, though he thought perhaps he should have saluted instead.

“Yes, soldier?”

“Colonel Rickwood can see you now. But could I ask you a question, first, my lord?”

“It seems as if you just did.” The big man looked down at Lerant, obviously amused. “But yes, go ahead.”

“You said you were looking for irregular soldiers, my lord, and I think I might be...” Lerant shrugged, looking for the right word. “A bit irregular, I suppose.”

Lord Raoul really studied him, now. “Have I met you before?”

Mithros, I hope this is the right answer, Lerant thought. “I believe so, my lord. We met in Corus, when I was in the Palace Guard.”

“And now you're in the army. What's your name, soldier?”

“Lerant, my lord. Lerant of Eldorne.”

Lord Raoul threw back his head and laughed. Somehow, this time, Lerant didn't mind being laughed at.


End file.
